Today's Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Little Boxes of Chocolate

By Barbara A. Crowley

There they were in the store window. Even now, tears stung my eyes. How many

years had it been? I made a quick calculation and realized that thirteen years

had passed. It seemed like only yesterday when Dad was handing out those little

boxes of chocolates to each of his sweethearts.

Valentine's Day was my father's holiday. He was in complete charge of all

festivities for as far back as I could remember. On that day, he gave each child

a small, heart-shaped box of chocolates, holding about eight candies. Mom always

received a huge box decorated with plastic flowers.

At the age of four, I had asked my mother why Dad would bring home a box of

candy to my baby sister. After all, she couldn't eat them. Mom told me that all

of Dad's sweethearts received a box of candy on Valentine's Day no matter what

age. It never mattered to him that she was too young to eat them.

We learned early to be extra good on Valentine's Day. We patiently waited for

Dad to get home and then promptly lined up like good little soldiers, as he gave

each child her box of goodies.

That little box of chocolates caused different reactions as we went through

life's stages. In the elementary school years, we would rush home and wait for

Dad. In junior high, my sisters and I felt a little embarrassed by this ritual,

but we still accepted his gift with enthusiasm.

The high school years came, and we thought we were too cool to be rushing home

to wait for Dad. Add a boyfriend to the picture, and we would do anything not to

let him find out about our father's tradition. But during those years when we

may not have had a boyfriend, we were comforted knowing that Dad was home

waiting for us with his special treat.

My sisters and I thought the only way we would ever get out of this ritual was

to move out of the house. We were wrong. My older sister was the first to leave

when she married. But come Valentine's Day there was a little box of chocolates

waiting for her, and so she made the trip over to collect it. One by one, all of

Dad's children moved out of the house, but we all made it back on that special

day to pick up his gift.

When Mom died, we thought this whole routine would fade away. Wrong again. We

approached that first Valentine's Day without Mom carefully. We all gathered for

dinner, and sure enough, those heart-shaped boxes were doled out the same as

they had been for the past twenty-five years.

Grandchildren entered the picture and were also included in this ritual from the

day they were born, even the two boys that Grandpa was so proud of.

The years rolled on, as did the tradition. When one sister moved out West, Dad

was not deterred. The boxes of chocolates were bundled up and sent out to arrive

on the holiday.

As adults, we had finally accepted and welcomed Dad's tradition. We always knew

we could count on him.

Suddenly, everything changed forever. Dad's first grandchild would become a

teenager on February 13. My sister decided to have a family dinner that night.

Since Valentine's Day fell on Dad's bowling night, Dad went ahead and handed out

the valentines a day early, stating it would be all right this one time.

Valentine's Day arrived with the threat of a blizzard. I had an early dinner

with my boyfriend, alone for the first time that I could remember on the holiday

reserved for sweethearts. Snow was falling when we left the restaurant, so we

decided to get home rather than stop to see Dad, who was bowling a block away.

I was dozing in front of the television when the phone rang. It was the

hospital. Dad had been brought in by ambulance after having an apparent heart

attack at the bowling lanes.

Fighting blinding snow all the way, I silently prayed that he wouldn't die. We

weren't in the waiting room long when a doctor emerged through the swinging

emergency room doors. His face said it all. Dad didn't make it.

Weeks after the funeral, my sister called with tears in her voice. She had just

realized that Dad had died on Valentine's Day. We decided it was just like him,

dying on his favorite holiday, with an attack of the heart, no less.

For the first few years after his death, none of us could bring ourselves to

observe Dad's holiday. But as our hearts healed, we began celebrating again. And

come February, when those little heart-shaped boxes of chocolates appear in

store windows, Dad's tradition lives on in my heart.